


Dwarven Hospitality

by aronnaxs



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Daddy Issues, Dubious Consent, M/M, Revenge
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-10-13
Updated: 2013-12-12
Packaged: 2017-12-29 06:17:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,990
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1001981
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aronnaxs/pseuds/aronnaxs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>/AU post-BoFA, Thorin lives/</p><p>One year after the Battle of the Five Armies, Thorin brings Thranduil and Legolas to Erebor to make them regret the Elvenking's harsh, humiliating treatment of the Company in Mirkwood.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> My first Tolkien fic published online and I'm literally terrified but ssh. Omg seriously I'm sorry if I've like wrecked anything haha xD don't look at me. No but if you want to comment I'll love you :) xxx

Thorin Oakenshield groomed himself for far longer than usual - maybe more than acceptable for a dwarf - that morning. For an hour at least, he stood before a bejewelled mirror under the scrutiny of his two nephews who handed out robe after robe to him, deep blues and rich purples. They had tried hard not to smile as he had called them into his room; he had seen their fleeting amusement to begin with. But the stern look in his face had quickly silenced them. 

Everyone knew what the coming day would entail. For the first time since the Battle of the Five Armies, as it had come to be known, the elves of Mirkwood were returning to Erebor. It had been upon the suggestion of Thorin himself, a year after relinquishing his lost throne and resurrecting the desolate mountain realm. The decision had not fared well with his advisors, or his nephews, who had wasted no time in informing him of their thoughts on the matter. They had asked him if the after effects of his wound in the battle had at last found him and had firmly reminded him of the terrible way they had been treated by the elves on their quest through the woodland realm. 

But Thorin remembered vividly the manner in which they had been dealt with; the long, humiliating nights in the darkened dungeons of the Elvenking, those cold eyes leering down at him, the mocking tones of that awful voice. Those memories were precisely why he now brought them to him. Why he had offered them his hospitality under the pretence of civility. And why he now stood in his most magnificent robes, crowned in shining metal, the beautiful, strong craftwork of the dwarves. Though still hesitant of the idea of their former captor darkening their uncle's kingdom, Fíli and Kíli had resigned themselves to acknowledging that they could not change Thorin's mind. So they had complimented the majesty that his appearance bore and accompanied him to the throne room.

Erebor was heralded as one of the last great dwarven kingdoms on Middle Earth. To have had it crumble almost to the depths of ruin under Smaug the Terrible would forever spark melancholy fury in Thorin's heart, though every wall, every column, every intricacy had been restored to its former shining glory. The throne room, abandoned and for so long a withering memorial to the decaying realm under the dragon, had been mercifully rescued. Because now, a more divine seat of power could not be found in all of Arda. The throne had been carved into the living rock, the centrepiece around which the whole grand cavern spanned. All who came before it bowed down in its magnificence, aglow with the eternal radiance of the Arkenstone, blazing above. A grand, high walkway led to it, stretching above the hewn chasm below. Side by side with his heirs, it was here that Thorin Oakenshield now walked. He climbed the short flight of steps and took his place - his rightful place - in that royal chair. From this elevated position, he was able to survey the whole cave, taking in every glorious dwarven warrior figure protruding like sentinels from the walls, the arches of the vaulted ceiling and the door at the very end of the cavern where he knew that soon, his visitors would be arriving through.

He did not move from here for much of the morning. Messengers came and went under his bidding to watch for the coming of the elves but it was not for some time that they returned with affirmatives of their presence. When he at last received the words he had been waiting for, he felt the beginnings of a strange, lurid thrill searing through him. They were here. Crossing into his realm. He had half a mind to forget his invitation to them and act as the Elvenking had acted towards them merely a year previously, a cruel, unforgiving suspicion of the travelling strangers in his land. Yet the Elvenking certainly was no stranger.

His eyes were once again drawn to the heavy doors at the end of the grand walkway. For a few moments, they remained tightly closed, despite his orders to the guards to allow in the visitors. Yet then, very slowly, very laboriously, a gap appeared between them and a sliver of light from the outer rooms poured in. The guards entered first, a perfect marching group of wonderful order. They bowed to the king, parted and then, flanked by more sentries, he at last got a glimpse of them, ascending the first flight of steps.

He had forgotten how very alien the Elvenking looked. He towered above his dwarves, a creature made of shimmering fabric and white porcelain, seeming to float rather than walk towards him. Even from a distance, those crystal blue eyes shone and pierced into his gaze, making his insides twist and coil. He had been quite happy to forget about him, cast from his mind the glow of his pallid skin, the twisting smirk on that red mouth, the lurid radiance he exuded. He had not changed in the slightest, the product of eternal youth.

He had not brought any other with him but his young son, the Prince. As they came before him, he lingered behind his father, not yet so much of a dangerous, terrible presence. Yet Thorin could clearly see echoes of the king in his manner, imagined he was the picture of him in his youth. When they paused in front of his throne, the lurid thrill seared him again. Two generations of royal elves stared back at him, waiting upon him to speak. He recalled the days the king used to pay his respects to his grandfather in this same place. Before his betrayal of them all, before he imprisoned his kith and kin in his dungeons. He could easily make him regret such actions -

"Welcome back to Erebor, O Elvenking," he said aloud, eyeing them from atop his high seat. "It has been a long time since you set foot in these halls. I trust you have not forgotten how to greet your host upon this throne?"

The traces of a vaguely amused smirk touched the corners of Thranduil's mouth. He tilted his head in the very same manner he had acknowledged Thorin's grandfather so many years previous and then dipped a knee in the slightest of ways, humouring the dwarf. The prince followed his lead, bowing far deeper. It was a satisfying sight to see. 

"Nay, you have not forgotten. I hope you also recall the splendour of this realm. A very fine spectacle it made, did it not? In one year, we have restored it back to, and beyond, that lost magnificence. Even the eyes of elves could not find a flaw." Thorin relished talking of his realm to these visitors. After all, it had not been so long since their places had been reversed and the Elvenking had revelled in his own kingdom before him. Do you want to know how it feels, elf? he thought. But Thranduil still bore the hints of that small smile, watching him with wide shining eyes. He knew what he was doing.

"It is very fine, Thorin Oakenshield," he breathed, but without even so much as glance about him. "I do recall its glory days."

Despite himself, Thorin chuckled. "Ah, you are wrong, Elvenking. You are standing here in its glory days right now. Rebuilt from the ruins made by a dragon. If that is not glorious, then I do not know the meaning of the word." Thranduil's face did not betray any emotion. He inclined his head again but did not speak. Thorin stared at him for a moment before turning his attention on his son, who was still standing someway behind his father, unequal to him. His blue gaze was not quite as penetrating as Thranduil's yet but he was still only young, at least in elven years, he supposed.

"This is your first time in Erebor, is it not, Prince?" he addressed him. He noticed Thranduil's eyes flick downwards to glance fleetingly over his shoulder at his son, trying to gauge how he would respond. A spark felt as though it had been lit briefly inside of Thorin. Could this be a weak spot for the Elvenking? He waited on the prince's answer.

"Yes, it is," he said. His voice echoed meagrely throughout the cavern, not the same deep, dark tone of his father. "My first time inside the mountain."

"Of course. I had quite forgotten your presence at the battle." It was a small slight but one which gave Thorin much pleasure in saying. Thranduil's eyes came back to him. He restrained a smile. "But I do not bring you here to discuss war with you. If you shall join me later, there are other matters I plan to talk of." 

"Matters I hope that will warrant our long journey," the king said levelly. "It is not a trek we make lightly."

Thorin swallowed the anger that Thranduil's arrogance had always aroused in him. Yet, within the walls of his own realm, the bite of his icy hostility did not seem so harsh. Instead, it was far weaker, less poisonous, not through his own doing but the authority that twisted crown could not bring here. This was his kingdom. He could do as he pleased, not the elf. He nodded. "It is not an invitation I make lightly."

A slight raise of those expressive eyebrows. "Very well. We shall join you later upon your request."

"I shall expect you." Thorin did not care in the slightest about lying to the elves, not even to the prince, whom his battle hardly concerned. Yet the Elvenking had brought him along with him and thus, into the line of fire. As it turned out though, Thorin secretly relished this turn of events, especially to see the looks Thranduil gave his son when the dwarf king turned his gaze upon him. He was the flaw in the elf's armour, evidently his weak spot. He would see how he could break that armour apart even further. Yet, as it was, he did not expect to speak of such 'matters' he alluded to to either of them. That was not why they were there, truly. No, he did not care about lying to them. It was about time to turn the tables upon the conniving creatures.

He rose from the seat and beckoned to one of the guards. The elves moved to let him approach the king. Bringing him close, he muttered lowly, as quietly as he could in his ear, away from even elven senses. "Show them to their rooms. They shall not be there long." 

 

(Tbc)


	2. Chapter 2

The way the two royal elves were taken along to their rooms was more akin to them being prisoners than guests. The dwarven guards flanked them on both sides, marching quickly and purposefully through the vaulted, dark passageways, and not one uttered a word. Towering above them, Legolas trailed behind Thranduil, disallowed from walking at his side by the position of their host. Although not quite as vigorous in the staunch dislike of the dwarf race that his father had, he still shared the mistrust all Mirkwood elves had instilled in them, and wouldn't have been surprised if the dwarf king had meant for this separation. He probably suspected father and son would conspire or something such as that. Old rulers were always so paranoid of possible plots behind their backs.

By elven standards, the prince was still in his youth and so did not fully understand the deep animosity his father held for the dwarves, harboured over thousands of years. He, himself, was mindful of them through inheritance and all of the resentful, biting words his father had spoken. But he had never had any grievance personally inflicted upon him by them. Not even when they had been imprisoned in the dungeons of the woodland realm the year before.

He knew that topic would arise during their stay here at the Lonely Mountain. The dwarf king would accuse them of mistreatment and his father would defend his actions, icily but calmly. It was an exchange Legolas had seen one side of many a time. So many a time he believed he may have been indoctrinated with the words himself. 

He didn't know what he wanted from this visit to Erebor. He wasn't even sure what the purpose of the invitation there had been. All his father had said to him was to whisper in his ear as they entered the realm and tell him not to leave his side. In all his years, he had barely done any different. 

The corridor that they were now being led down did not look any different from the many other corridors they had been along. However, they were soon brought to an abrupt stop and the dwarf leading them thrust out an arm to indicate to a number of doors down one side. Legolas moved to his father's side to hear his words and was vaguely surprised to find out that their rooms were directly next to one another's. Some part of him deep inside, obviously instilled by his father, told him that there was something wrong with that, and as the dwarven host walked away, he found his eyes lingering after them.

Thranduil sharply grabbed his arm and turned him back. "Legolas," he said firmly, then lowered his voice when the sound of it echoed off the walls. "Keep your eyes forward."

"I was -"

"Ssh." Still holding onto his arm, he guided him down the corridor and into one of the rooms that had been pointed out to them. Now they were alone, Thranduil had let slip his unemotional, bare mask and was frowning darkly. Legolas watched in confused silence as he tightly shut the door before the dwarves could see, ducking under the low alcove. Luckily, the rest of the room had a far higher ceiling and both elves could stand freely beneath the vaulted eaves. Legolas privately admired the wide space while his father was busy listening through the door for the guards. It was no elven bed chamber but there was no mistaking or denying its majestic appearance. He thought he understood now why Thorin had placed them in there specifically - probably to try and rub the restored elegance in their faces and show them how far he had come from the ruins of the previous year.

He looked away as his father turned back around, keeping his eyes forward as he had been told to do. He couldn't help but notice the troubled look on his face. "Do you trust them?" he said. The question took Legolas by surprise. Although his father was not secretive in the way he dealt with council amongst his trusted companions, it was a rare occasion for him to ask such a direct statement to him. He stared at him for some time, frowning and briefly wondering how similar they looked while doing that. "Legolas. You are not concentrating. I asked you a question."

"I'm sorry, adar." He bowed his head but Thranduil grasped his chin and forced him to raise it again. 

"I've told you to keep your head up while you talk to me."

Legolas stared into Thranduil's piercing blue eyes, searching him. He knew exactly what answer he wanted him to give. "I don't know what to think of them, adar. Now that Thorin has reclaimed his kingdom, he has no reason to harbour any animosity towards us, surely." 

Thranduil looked at him a moment longer before dropping his hand and walking away, obviously dissatisfied with his response. "He will not let his animosity fade away quietly," he said firmly, as certainly as if he was reaching into Thorin's mind and reading the secret thoughts within. "He still bears a hatred of us, of what he sees as unjustified cruelties against him and his people. It is more than likely that he sees them as treason now he has become King. He is not worthy of our trust."

Legolas watched his father pace around the room as he spoke, words and voice growing passionate. The dominance that he exuded had an impressive influence over many people. He tried not to disappoint him too far as he replied. "Maybe we should wait to hear what he has to say when he speaks to us this evening." Yet as soon as he said it, he knew it was a meagre suggestion. His father tossed his head in exasperation. 

"He will lie to our faces, I am sure of it. Find some way to elude and toy with us, as he and his company did to escape the cells they were put in. We would be wise not to trust one word he says."

"Adar, if he is truly being civil, by rejecting him we would be putting in peril -"

Thranduil cut him off by again coming before him and placing a strong hand on his shoulder. He looked up to see his father's face had suddenly softened a little, the fire temporarily vanished from his eyes. "We would be wise not to trust one word he says," he repeated quietly. "And you would be wise to do as I say. Do not trust him or any of his companions, Legolas." 

His father was very hard to deny, even if he was still torn between two minds by what he was saying. "Yes -" he started, but Thranduil continued as if sensing his indifference. 

"Remember what I'm saying, Legolas. He has not brought us all this way, far from our home, alone, to shower us with honest affection. Does this seem like the state of a diplomatic meeting to you? But he knows that I will distrust him. It is you he will be interested in. Do not leave my side. I will not let -" He paused, the words dying on his lips. He cleared his throat. "Do not leave my side." 

Legolas felt like a mere elfling again when he was spoken to like this. He was certain that many others in his father's realm had noticed this treatment and how he yielded so silently to it, but it was worthless to resist Thranduil. He was ancient, wise and extremely authoritative. And, more often that not, he turned out to be right. Although there were a fair amount of matters that Legolas privately disagreed with him over, it was far more beneficial to submit to him, especially when those bright, watchful eyes seared down at him. He hated more than anything to disappoint him. 

"Yes, adar. I will stay by you."

"Very good." He noticed that a weight appeared to lift from Thranduil's shoulders as he moved away.

However, it was not long before there was a rough knock upon the door. Legolas rose from the bed where he had been sitting and without even being told to do so, moved to stand by his father's side. As Thranduil called who for whoever it was to enter, he expected to see Thorin there, come to see if his extravagant rooms had had their desired effect. Yet it was not him but the same dwarven host from earlier. They entered brashly, ignoring the prince and coming straight to Thranduil.

"The King requests your presence," one announced, not bothering with terms of address. "He wishes to speak with you."

Thranduil looked down at them, seeming to eye each and every member of the guard. "Very well," he said, then turned to Legolas, motioning for him to come along. The leader of the dwarf host noticed the movement. 

"Alone," he said firmly. A slightest trace of worry ran across Thranduil's stoic face, but he kept composed. 

"Is there any reason why he wishes for me to be alone?"

"It is not my place to question the king. You are requested to come before him. He made no mention of your son." 

Legolas looked up at his father, trying to gauge his reaction. If he had still been a little child, he could have clung onto him and they wouldn't have taken him away. Thranduil kept staring down at the dwarves. "Will this take long?" he asked. 

"I have told you it is not my place to question the king. Come, he is expecting you."

Thranduil had no choice but to leave with them. They circled him, corralling him into the middle of their group, and without another word, marched him out of the room. Legolas watched him go, catching a swift glance from him as they herded him out. "Ada -" he said. But they were soon gone.

He could do nothing but sit back upon the bed and watch the open door for their return. Part of him wanted to follow but he did not know where they had gone and the mountain realm was a huge labyrinth of corridors and passageways. If he became lost, his father would be furious with him. So despite his longing, he decided to simply stay where he was. 

Now that Thranduil had left, he was forced to be alone with his thoughts on the dwarves. It was true that there were many reasons to distrust them and on some level, he did just that. But he could not bring himself to suspect and dislike them as much as his father did, and he doubted he ever could. Maybe it was their ages, his comparative lack of experience, a general division in their outlooks on the world... But his father had warned him, taken him by the shoulder and stared at him fiercely, as he had done many a time. He wanted to stay by his side and sate the little child inside of him who wanted to have his decisions made for him, if only so he could escape the warring conflict of what was right, wrong, obedient and disobedient. 

He wished he was not a prince sometimes so he did not have to bear such burdens, exacerbated by the weight of his title. He was about to remove his circlet which had begun to dig into the back of his head when he heard footsteps down the corridor. He wondered how long had passed since his father had left.

This time it was not the dwarven host but Thorin Oakenshield who came to the door. Legolas immediately rose from the bed. "What have you done with my father?" he asked when he saw Thorin was alone. The slightest glimpse of a smile touched Thorin's mouth. 

"He is fine. Do not worry."

"Where is he?"

"You will meet with him again later." Thorin scrutinised the look on Legolas' face with a vague sense of amusement in his features. "You have been told not to trust me, haven't you? Well, he is not here now, you can make up your own mind."

Legolas stayed silent. Thorin smiled and shook his head at the treatment. "And seeing as he will not be returning too soon, I came to invite you to take in the beauty of Erebor. And this evening there will be a feast. I'm sure you are hungry after the long journey." 

The words he spoke were true but Legolas tried to stand his ground. Thorin watched him, entertained by how he avoided contact with his eyes. "It is your choice, however. Do not let your father decide if you are to eat or not tonight. He may join us if you come." He turned back to the door, the sound of clinking metal loud in the echoing chamber. "I will return within the hour."

With that, he left. Legolas listened to his footsteps as they disappeared down the corridor. Once he had gone, he sighed and resumed taking off his circlet, realising how heavy it had become in his hands.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aha *nervous laughter* sorry this took a while to update. Hopefully the next chapter will be a bit quicker :) thanks for all the reviews and kudos so far. I love you all x and thank you to my new friend Violette on tumblr for inspiring me with future ideas for this :333


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I seriously struggled with this chapter so sorry it took so long :( Nothing appeared to be falling into place but yay it's finally done and I think it's alright now???  
> I know what I'm doing with the next chapter though so hopefully that one will be a bit quicker c: thank you for all the feedback so far xx

Legolas felt dirty as Thorin led him around the vast intricate halls of Erebor; dirty that he had gone against the warring conscience in his mind, dirty that he had ignored the advice of his father and dirty that a dwarf was now guiding him, ushering him through countless rooms and passageways hewn by a race that he was meant to despise. He had tried to trick himself that he had had no choice in the matter - that Thorin had marched into his room for a second time and forced him to come along - but that was a blatant lie. The dwarf king had merely offered for him to see the 'beauty of his relinquished kingdom' and had not intended for that offer to cause such conflict within the elf. No. No, of course he had. That was his plan all along. And he was falling for it. 

He attempted to keep a placid, unreadable face as they advanced through the mountain realm so Thorin would not gain the power of knowing what was going on in his mind. This stoicism was something his father was so good at, and he sometimes believed that it was one of the more many things he had inherited from him. Part of him wished he was here now, taking the lead and skilfully and slyly arranging what it was they had to do. It was what he had always done, ever since his childhood and the disappearance of his mother. Thranduil had had to raise him alone but instead of cowering from this added responsibility on top of his kingship, he had risen fiercely to the challenge, keeping Legolas close and firmly cocooned in his orders and protection. It was the only life he had ever known, yet, as another may in the same situation, he did not resent it. 

And, now, when he was trailing behind Thorin Oakenshield, the embodied focus of much of his father's distrust and hostility, he found himself somewhat craving the presence that had dominated so many of his thousand years. The mere acknowledging of that thought did not help the conflict inside his mind. A thousand years old. And still secretly wanting to shelter behind his father's robes like an elfling might when something unknown and different came too close. He should stop that silly behaviour, he frequently told himself. Far too many seasons had passed in his life for him to still yearn for the company of his father. And now, within the halls of Erebor, he finally had a chance to move on from that, and stand alone. 

He had almost managed it the year before. And, again, Thorin Oakenshield had been at the centre of it. Privately, when his father had locked them deep down in the dungeons of the palace, his heart had dared to whisper that it was wrong, that for once, he had taken an incorrect course of action. He would never tell Thranduil but he had frequently visited the dwarves when they had idly lain there in their cells and though their conversations were short and quiet in the fear of someone finding him, he had seen much in them when he had cast down the veil of contempt that his brethren carried. Something beyond the icy, venomous words of his father. It was something he hoped wouldn't be re-awoken due to the guilt those realisations brought. 

Yet, now, there those thoughts were again, eating away at him as he tried valiantly to deny the beauty of Erebor's mountain halls. If his father ever discovered his inner contemplations, he would surely think him a traitor. Of course, the implications of that made him vastly uneasy; yet not so much because of the stigma that would follow him, but the disappointment he would have to bear in his father's eyes. 

Maybe it was better, after all, that he wasn't here. It was truly hard to hide anything from Thranduil.

Thorin had been talking to him as they moved through the endless caverns and vaulted chambers, yet he realised he had not listened to barely a word he had said. His voice had faded to a quiet murmur in the periphery of his senses and if he was honest, he didn't really desire to hear the words he said anyway. Surely he would recount the history of Erebor in rich detail - though Legolas had a keen interest in the lore of Arda, he was aware that it would not be an entirely objective account that the dwarf would give. And the prince was not in the right mood, or frame of mind, to be filled with any more warring, accusative words about his father. 

He doubted that the dwarf had noticed his lack of focus though - he had made sure to keep a few paces behind him at all times, just in case his composure slipped even a fraction of a degree, and he had not had to look into the king's eyes yet. They kept walking, Thorin ahead and him trailing behind (a position he had perfected in his father's wake), and many rooms and hallways passed before them. He took them all in blankly, without a word about any, yet could not ignore the feeling of mild awe building inside. Just a year before, they had been the abode of a mighty dragon - and those creatures were not known for their care or tidiness if they were not tending to their hordes of treasure. The realm had been restored masterfully and not even his fine elven senses could detect any remains or reminders of the fire drake.

Thorin's pride in it was legendary and obvious but, still, as they wound their way through labyrinthine corridors into the chasm of walkways above the mines, Legolas could tell he thought something was missing. By appearance, everything was the same as how it had been before Smaug's intrusion yet Thorin's manner spoke of a yearning, hidden just below the surface, for something else. Something had not been restored with the working hammers or the re-raising of the statues or the return of the dwarves. Something deeper was yet to find its foundations in the mountain halls again.

Up ahead, Thorin walked, without even glancing down at his footing, over the narrow platforms of the mines. Legolas was accustomed to high places, having to frequent the lofty paths of his father's halls each day and also being so fond of climbing the trees in Mirkwood, but the drop either side of the area he now stood was immense. As he allowed himself a glimpse downwards, he found he could not see the end of the abyss below. Somewhere down there, there was the sound of clinking metal and crashes against stone as the hidden dwarven miners worked, but other than that, there was no sign that the void ended. 

Thorin paused at the end of a walkway and turned to glance at him, lingering behind with curious glances over the edge. A glinting light hit his eyes as he watched. "Is the elf frightened of the drop?" he asked, and there was a definite mocking quality to his voice. Legolas snapped up, bristling at the words. 

"I was merely surveying your work area," he said. It was the first thing he had uttered to the dwarf since they had begun their tour. Thorin continued to watch him almost suspiciously, seemingly not satisfied with the answer.

"This is not where it ends," he said. "The caverns stretch far back into the mountains, beyond count of their magnitude and vastness. You are merely surveying part of it." There was no response from the stony-faced elf. "Why don't you come closer instead of lurking in the shadows?" 

The look Legolas gave him was unreadable, though in the midst of it, his blue eyes flashed with some deep, hidden emotion that could have been anything from anger to fear. He blinked it away quickly. He had not the control of his father, who could stand in the boughs of fire and still appear as if made of the coldest ice. It was a frightening, eerie quality, and Legolas wasn’t sure he was fond of trying to emulate it. But it was the only thing he knew. And he had promised him he would stay alert of Thorin and his ways – whatever these were.

His body straightened and tensed as he presented a diminished, hesitant version of his father to the dwarf, walking towards him gradually, never once taking his eyes from his curious face. He deliberately kept his gaze from the gaping chasm below, though he knew one false step could send him plummeting to certain death. To be in such danger was not a rare occasion in his life, but with the subject of so much of Thranduil’s wrath staring at him, it felt magnified tenfold. The hints of a pleased smirk touched the corners of the king’s mouth.

‘’Why are you still so hesitant, princeling?’’ he mocked. ‘’Do you think I would push you?’’

But then the elf was standing at his side, towering above him with the last trace of that flicker of emotion vanished. He tilted his head. ‘’Do you think you could push me?’’ he said, barely above a whisper. And for a moment, the heavy, tingling thrill of danger pulsed between them. Thorin watched him wrestle with it, half-willing to indulge in the forbidden, murky waters of his freedom, half-willing to back out and run. But then the instant was gone and he withdrew a pace, returning to the guise of the conflicted son of the woodland king.

Thorin chuckled, as if nothing had happened. ‘’You think highly of yourself, elf,’’ he said. "Not all wish to conspire against you."

And with that, the king raised an eyebrow and brushed past the prince, back over the walkway towards the outer passageways. Legolas regretted staring after him, his heart pounding too fast in his chest. He finally followed, ignoring the stares of the dwarves swarming to watch this strange elf on the neighbouring high paths. 

The remainder of the long tour around the kingdom passed relatively uneventfully, as far as the prince could help it. He again returned to walking in Thorin's footsteps and only when they made it back to the imposing front gates did he again look down into his face. There was an odd sheen to Thorin when they finally stopped. "I am sure the elf is now satisfied with our halls," the dwarf king said and again, there was that amused quality to his voice that Legolas couldn't, or didn't dare to, read. He didn't reply, instead twisted his hands privately behind his back. Thorin seemed to expect that non-response though. 

"Well, it is no matter to me of your opinion," he shrugged. "You may return to your chambers. But I remind you that this evening, there will be a feast, and maybe that will be more to your satisfaction?" 

Legolas had forgotten about that. His shoulders tensed from the added weight but he kept up a nonchalant appearance. "I thank you for the offer," he breathed. Thorin nodded.

"Hospitality is important to some races," he said simply, and before Legolas could muster a reply, he merely turned and walked back into the dark distance of his realm. 

But Legolas had not the heart to give him the pleasure of a reaction to that final audacious statement. He had had enough of the dwarf's taunting games for a while and truly, he was glad to have him out of his presence.

There was still some time before the evening; still hours to decide on his next best course of action. So, trying to shift the heaviness pressing on his chest, he exited away from the wide front gates and somewhat hoping, somewhat fearing, for his father's possible presence in their chambers, found his way back into the labyrinth. 

\---

Half of Thorin didn’t expect the elf to appear in the great chamber that evening for supper. Though he knew the journey to Erebor was long and the prince and his father most likely had not fed for many long hours, in the short time he had been around Legolas, he could tell he was in two minds about what was occurring in this visit to the mountain halls. As they had walked about the kingdom, he had turned a quick eye to him every now and then and had seen a look in his face that would have been more at home on the Elvenking's icy countenance, trying to appear untouched by what surrounded him. It was an appearance that had often driven Thorin to madness but, this time, instead of reviling him, the action amused him greatly. It reminded him of walking with a child who, not knowing what else to do in a strange, unfamiliar situation, had taken to copying their father, trying to channel his reactions and movements. Fíli and Kíli had frequently attempted this when they had been far younger, though with the exception that they attempted to mimic everything their uncle did.

It was an endearing (though doubtlessly sometimes annoying) quality for someone much younger to do but in an elf whose age stretched from anything from 1000 to 2000 - he had not cared to inquire - it was desperate. A dire struggle to find how to act on his own terms.

Though he was not sure if the prince knew he was doing it or not. Certainly, a few times in their tour of the mountain, his guard had slipped for a moment and a hint of what lay beneath the father's mask arose. He saw stolen glances at the vistas stretching around them, a kind of veiled awe at what had probably been described as nothing more than a glorified dungeon before. It was not something Legolas wanted him to see, obviously, for as soon as Thorin began to speak, he would sink back into the safety of that stoicism. Yet the pattern of wonder followed by aloofness still continued and Thorin was sure that if they had walked for long enough, the prince would soon have shown his true colours.

He was surprised he had not noticed this oddity a year previously when he had been in the Elvenking's halls. But then again he had not seen much of the prince. He was probably being hidden away by Thranduil so he wasn't 'corrupted' by the dwarves or something peculiar such as that. 

As he sat waiting in the grand hall for the possible arrival of the elf, he pondered on the relationship between the father and son. He had not heard anything, or seen anything, of a mother, or of any siblings, so that would leave those two only. Whether it had always been like that he couldn't be certain. But Thranduil definitely had a power over Legolas that was almost too overbearing. He sought to control him, bring him under his influence, and the prince submitted to these wishes. Thorin wondered, with a sick thrill, how long it would take to drag him out of that dense forest of his father's orders. For he had seen there was something else inside the prince, gnawing to get out but throttled by his loyalty to the one dominating figure in his life.

Upon inviting the Elvenking to his realm, he had never thought he would become a part of something like this. After all, it had not been the dwarf king's choice to have Legolas in his halls also. But Thranduil had brought him - for what reason he had yet to know - and accidentally exposed maybe the only weakness in his heart and mind of stone. Thorin felt an obscene pleasure at having pulled them from each other. Now they were beginning to become caught in his webs, ones that could prove just as deadly as those outside the elves' isolated palace. 

Thranduil would be made to regret the desolation of the beautiful Lonely Mountain and the humiliation of those weeks of imprisonment. And only then could these halls regain their entire strength. 

He smiled to himself in the wide, lonesome chamber and reached to pour two goblets of potent ale, being careful to separate the one for him and the one which would be offered to the prince if he arrived. They came from two different silver jugs, both filled to the brim with the same liquid but dissimilar in one important way. Thorin knew that many years ago, when he was younger, he would have blanched at this planned deceit but marred by memories of dragon fire and exile, the conscience of the former dwarf prince would not stand up to the present day. There was no room for superfluous compassion or mercy anymore. They had been burnt out with the breath of the dragon, withering like the previously beautiful valley outside the front gate. This was was something he had to do, for the good of his people, and for his own scarred mind. 

The sound of a door creaking slowly open drew him from the swirling red maelstrom inside his goblet. On instinct, he raised his head, expecting nothing more than another guard or his hand servant with the food. Instead, standing at the end of the huge, long room, his silver robe appearing to glow against the dark stone of the cavern, was the elf prince. He remained there for some time, motionless and mute, looking as blank as the statues at his side, and Thorin almost expected him to suddenly bolt like a frightened animal. He would not let him slip away that easily though.

Before anything else could happen, the dwarf raised his hand in a half-mocking form of greeting and began to speak. "So you join me, princeling," he said loudly and his low voice echoed off the wide, towering walls. He was pleased with its effect as Legolas finally met his eyes. "You know it is not wise to deny the offer of dwarven meals. Come forward."

The elf hesitated unsurprisingly but then gradually moved into the room, taking a few steps and then, when seeing the roof would not cave in on him for his treachery, walked the rest of the way in. He flowed past the enormous table, casting an eye over its emptiness, before coming to stop a couple of seat places away from Thorin. "You told me that there was a feast being held tonight," he said quietly, as if unsure of the sound of his voice in this amplified chamber. Thorin answered by gesturing to a chair a few positions away from him, deliberately avoiding his nephews' places and anyone of meagre importance. Legolas glanced at the offered seat suspiciously.

"There is a feast," he replied simply. "But it is someway on the other side of the halls. There will be much eating, much drinking, much partaking in events that elves would find distasteful, I'm certain. On the whole, much merriment."

Legolas frowned, taking the statement as a mildly veiled insult. "You speak as though the elves do not have joy in their lives, or are unable to feel it."

Thorin tried hard not to chuckle. He stifled a small snort and forced the ale-filled goblet in Legolas' direction. "If you speak the truth," he said. "You speak it in such a morose way that it is immediately rendered unbelievable."

The elf fell silent at this, like the dwarf had unwittingly touched on something. He slowly touched the stem of the intricately decorated drinking vessel and keeping his eyes firmly ahead, sank gracefully down into the directed chair. Though for a dwarf it may have been high-backed and a perfect fit, for him, it merely came up to his shoulder blades and his knees bumped irritatingly against the bottom of the table. Thorin had known this would be the case but had decided against taking any accommodating measures. After all, the elves had hardly been accommodating towards him and his company. 

Legolas appeared to be trying not to draw attention to it though. He sat up straight and poised and took one delicate, hesitant sip of the ale. Thorin watched him, feeling the first spikes of eagerness in his breast. The elf's diaphragm convulsed briefly as he struggled to withhold a cough but then he settled and drank again to prove his composure. Thorin wondered of the differences between Mirkwood's famous wine and the dwarven ale. He certainly knew which one he would rather have on his table.

Legolas paused for a moment after drinking, as if pondering on something, and then put the goblet down. "I don't suppose my father will be joining us either?" he asked. It seemed he tried to keep the emotion from his voice but Thorin heard a small trace of hope lingering there. 

"He is elsewhere," he replied ambiguously. Legolas' shoulders dropped a fraction.

"Will I see him tonight?" he dared to utter.

"Is it of importance?"

Legolas did not answer for some time. Servants entered the room carrying food and piled plates and bowls high upon the table before them but still he continued to stare into his ale. Watching him from the corner of his eye, Thorin left him to his broodings yet knew if the night continued like this, it could last a long while. 

Finally, Legolas raised his head and grudgingly reached for a roll of bread nearest to him. He split it between elegant hands and a pair of red lips wrapped around it. There was something alluring about the way he ate, something that reminded Thorin of a night long ago before the coming of the dragon, where one so similar had sat in his place, as quiet and cold as he was now. At least until...

"Why did you bring us here?" The question almost caught Thorin off guard. He drifted back from his distant, almost otherworldly memories and came to look into the bright eyes of the elf. He stared at him defiantly, willing him for an answer, seeming to dare him into it. Thorin merely shook his head.

"As you have been told. I wish to discuss matters with you."

"And the terms of these mean that each party has to be split from each other?" The question was meant to be a show of dominance but it came out weak, struggling. Thorin could see where the elf wanted the conversation to go; he refused to let him control it. 

"You still do not trust me, do you?" he asked. Legolas shrank back a little, though his body was still almost trembling with the tension gripping it. He averted his gaze. "I have not harmed you personally. I have guided you about my realm, far more graciously than I was welcomed to yours -"

"You were a prisoner -"

"-I have given you a place to rest and now you are sitting at my table with food. Tell me, if it was not for your father, if you were not his son, would you spit words so poisonously at me?" It was a question designed to unhinge the already crumbling resolve in Legolas' mind. He violently ripped another roll in half and swallowed more ale, as if to avoid Thorin's voice. 

"You are not one to talk about releasing ancestors' grudges, Thorin Oakenshield," he eventually uttered darkly. "You, of all, cannot lecture on what a son inherits from his father or - grandfather. And you speak as though I obey him against my will. How can you possibly understand the life of an elf? He is the only thing I -"

Legolas trailed off, interrupting himself before saying something he might regret. He looked down into his goblet, moving it about so the liquid danced before him, and then downed the remainder of it. Thorin knew what he had been about to say. He is the only thing I have. Although whether that was true or a lie told by Thranduil to keep Legolas from straying he could not tell. As far as he could reckon, the younger elf was trying to be honest yet in his words, something was slipping, like he was resorting to his final defences. If he had continued for long enough, the very last barricades may have withered away. 

During the rest of the evening sat in that chamber, Thorin carried on with what was becoming a new personal obsession; to break this stubborn, confused young elf's icy mask. He quizzed him remorselessly, trying to get under his skin, and gradually, a hungering for a taste of freedom began to seep to the surface. It was very subtle, almost non-existent, but the dwarf knew what he was looking for and, like a fly now caught in his web, he wound strands of deception around the prince, pushing him further and further, expounding on his weak spots, of which he had far more than the Elvenking. The process was grossly satisfying and soon, the elf was beginning to look him straight in the eye instead of far off in the corner of the room. Thorin knew the power he could exude when he wanted to and Legolas was trapped now; he wondered luridly what his father would think of this fuelled exchange that night. What a treat it would be to banish the control of the prince over himself at the same time as the control Thranduil had over him. And then to see the look on the king's face...

Thorin could not help smiling as he finished off his own meal. He would visit him in a moment, toy with him in the same way he had played with his helpless dwarves the year before. How would he like that treatment now he was on the receiving end of it? 

Legolas turned to him when he began to stand from the high seat. Thorin noticed with satisfaction that a quaint blush had begun to colour his pallid cheeks; though he had offered him drink after drink that evening, he doubted the redness was entirely from just the ale, nor the slight twitching of his hands or the minute squirming in his chair. His breathing hitched quietly as he said, "can I return to my chambers now?"

Thorin delighted in shaking his head. "Not yet, princeling. I have not finished talking with you. I am merely going to take care of something, then I will return. In the meanwhile, do not try and leave. The guards will not allow you."

Legolas glanced at the door on the other side of the room. Three stocky dwarves stood there, blocking the exit for all but Thorin. "I feel more and more like a prisoner," he muttered. 

"Only if you try and leave," Thorin smirked. Then, without another word, he swept past the frowning elf and left the grand hall, heading for somewhere of much importance in this renewed kingdom.

\---

He was correct, he knew he would be; the look on the Elvenking's face was a wickedly enjoyable thing to behold. Down deep in the bowels of the mountain he lay, confined amidst waves and oceans of gold but unable to touch it, unable to move barely at all but from how his chains would allow. When Thorin entered the sparkling dungeon, once home to a monstrous dragon and now housing something just as furious, he didn't even try to remain calm. He stood up as far as he could and marched forward until the binds of metal about his hands and feet clanged noisily and stiffened against the column behind him. He made up for the rest of the distance between him and the dwarf by raising a loud, venomous voice.

"You snake!" he shouted across the treasure as Thorin slowly, tauntingly, made his way over, being sure to stand just outside the area he could reach. "How dare you treat me like this?! Have you lost what is left of your fading mind?!"

Thorin did not feel threatened at all by these seething words. He merely looked up at the Elvenking, trembling with unbridled rage, and tilted his head, mocking him. "It is not so pleasant, is it?" Thranduil scowled, tugging on his chains as if to strike Thorin, but the dwarf simply moved back. "But that is not what I came here to discuss. I cannot stay long. All I wanted to ask you was about your son."

Thranduil's face immediately dropped, worry momentarily replacing his anger before being swallowed up again by the all-consuming emotion. "What have you done with him?" he hissed. "If you hurt him, I will -"

"He is safe. In fact, I believe he is enjoying himself now you are not breathing down his neck." Thranduil tried to lunge again but Thorin held up a hand insultingly, greatly relishing toying with the proud king. "But I have a question for you." He paused teasingly, letting the anticipation begin to strangle the king's already ice-thin patience. When he finally spoke, he did so lowly, dangerously. "Is he as pure as his fair features may suggest?"

Thranduil frowned. He stared at the dwarf, bewildered for an instant, but then the realisation dawned and a new wave of fury dashed upon him. "You dare -" he began. 

Thorin smiled, satisfied that the elf had understood, and then started to back out of the room, never once glancing from Thranduil's face, infuriated, shocked, terrified. "If you dare touch him, I will not hesitate to cut your throat! I will burn your halls a thousand times over! You will not touch him! Thorin!" 

But by this point, Thorin had disappeared out of the treasure room and back into the corridors in the direction of the grand chamber. He could hear the Elvenking's threats echoing down after him, death and fire and destruction following his footsteps, yet paid them no heed. The only concern of his was the squirming, inebriated elf in his feast hall.

**Author's Note:**

> EDIT 06/03/15: I wanted to apologise for the loooong amount of time that I haven't updated this for. I'm still getting comments on it and thank you so much for that. I just wanted to say that this is on hiatus, and I'm not sure if I'll pick it up again as I kind of lost inspiration for it. Thank you all for your lovely comments though, and there'll probably be some more Tolkien fanfic in the future :)


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